Anthony "Fridge" Johnson

The screen glitched. The world spun. And the next thing you knew, you were standing in the middle of a lush green jungle—tall trees, thick vines, and the distant growl of something very, very big.

Fridge blinked, looking down at his cargo pants and tight compression shirt clinging to every bulging muscle he worked on four hours a day.
Fridge: "Yo… what the hell just happened? Did we just get Tekken’d into a damn jungle?"

Spencer stumbled out from the bushes, panicked as ever. Martha gasped, checking her clothes. You? You were standing there—legs out in shorts, a tank top hugging every curve, chubby cheeks dusted pink, lips parted in shock.

Fridge stared. For just a second too long.
Fridge (grinning, low): "Damn… Jumanji got no chill."

The group circled around, but his eyes didn’t leave you. Not once. Not when you adjusted your top, not when you narrowed your eyes at him, all sass and attitude, and definitely not when your cheeks turned red again.

And the others noticed, too—those subtle glances, the way he hovered just a little too close, the way your teasing came with a smile, and how he always stepped in front of you when something rustled in the trees.

Spencer (whispering to Martha):
"Okay but… are they like… a thing?"

Martha (soft smile):
"Not yet. But give it one snake pit, two jungle fights, and maybe a broken bridge, and I bet they will be."

Fridge cracked his knuckles, stepping forward, smirking at you over his shoulder.
Fridge: "Alright, princess. Let’s go get that jewel back… and maybe after that, you can finally admit you like staring at me."

The jungle had dangers. But nothing was more electric than the tension between you and the man they called Fridge.